


Under the Table

by kathkin



Series: Yes, Jamie, it is a big one! [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: M/M, Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The Doctor was looking blandly ahead, listening to the conversation, like everything was normal, like he wasn’t tossing Jamie off under the dainty tablecloth.</i> The Doctor gets bored at an official dinner and finds an interesting way to entertain himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Table

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat belated fill for [this](http://sizeofthatthing.livejournal.com/3359.html?thread=3840031#t3840031) sizeofthatthing prompt: _Two/Jamie. The Doctor sitting next to Jamie and giving him a hand job during a meeting/dinner with important officials, because he's bored._

Stifling a yawn, Jamie reflected that he really ought to have followed Victoria’s lead and gone to bed after the pudding’d been served. He’d only stayed because there’d been talk of whisky, but the dram he’d been given tasted like something for cleaning drains. He’d downed it quickly, so as not to be rude, and now here he was, blinking away while the fat, balding man across the table droned on and on about outer-space mining and percentages and profit margins.

There were about a dozen men, all of them either fat and balding or thin and balding, and one incongruously pretty lady. They were under the impression that the Doctor was some sort of outer-space mining expert, which to be fair he probably was. He just wasn’t the expert they were expecting, the one who was supposed to be mediating between their seemingly endless factions. Where the _real_ expert was – now that was a question that could be left for tomorrow.

“Say we were to split the copper deposits 59-41%,” droned the balding man, “in our favour, of course – how would that sit with the lunar colonies?”

Jamie stifled yet another yawn. The Doctor shot him a sympathetic look and, scooting his chair closer, rested a hand firmly upon his thigh. Jamie didn’t think much of it, at first; he took it for a comforting gesture. _Yes, it’s painfully dull, isn’t it, but it’ll be over soon_ , it seemed to say.

“Sixty-forty might be neater.” The Doctor waved away the offer of another glass of drain-cleaning ‘whisky’.

“Oh, no, no, no,” said the balding man, shaking his jowls. “We couldn’t possibly go higher than fifty-nine.”

“Mmm-hmm.” The Doctor went on to say something else, but Jamie had stopped listening – partly out of boredom but mainly because the Doctor’s hand had begun to move. It ran slowly up and down his thigh, dragging the thick wool over and over his skin, making it prickle. There was something curiously purposeful about it – this wasn’t a friendly touch, no, this was making Jamie shiver and the Doctor knew it. 

Jamie shot the Doctor a look and found him to all appearances listening intently to the conversation. “You might find they aren’t satisfied with anything other than fifty-fifty,” he said, which provoked a chorus of tutting and head-shaking up and down the table. “It would be fairer.”

“ _Fair_ has nothing to do with it,” said one of the thin balding men. “This is about _asserting_ ourselves.”

“Exactly,” boomed the balding man. “It’s all a matter of dominance.”

“Oh, really?” said the Doctor – and without any warning at all his hand slid all the way up Jamie’s thigh and _squeezed_ him through his kilt.

Jamie jerked, his foot colliding sharply with the incongruously pretty lady’s leg. The table rattled, his half-full wine glass wobbling so perilously that it was only the Doctor’s timely intervention that kept it from spilling its scarlet contents all over the nice white table cloth.

“Careful, Jamie,” he said as he righted the glass.

“Sorry,” Jamie said in a mumble. “Sorry,” he said to the lady beside him. She gave him a faint smile. He didn’t think he was forgiven, but there was no time to dwell on his faux pas.

As the conversation resumed about them, the Doctor returned his hand to Jamie’s thigh, toying with the thick hem of his kilt. Jamie shot him a look as if to say _what the hell are you **doing**_. In return, the Doctor gave him his most innocent look, the one he used when he was about to do something absurd like ‘accidentally’ bring down a dictatorship or blow up an invading space fleet or walk out of a restaurant without paying for any of their food. Jamie knew that look, and he knew that was in real trouble.

Just like that, the Doctor lifted the hem of Jamie’s kilt and danced his fingers up the bare skin of his thigh, drawing slow, careful circles, working his way over more and more sensitive skin like he had all the time in the world, like they weren’t sitting in a room full of stern-faced old men. The Doctor was tracing with his fingers the same path he’d traced time and again with his tongue, Jamie realised – and that thought made him twitch. He choked down a whimper.

“Are you alright?” said the pretty lady beside him.

“I’m fine,” Jamie forced out. “Just a wee bit –” The Doctor’s thumb ran along the crease at the top of his thigh, and his breath hitched. “– tired.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look well.” She tried to put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched and desperately nodded, trying to shape his features into some semblance of a normal look. Just what did he normally do with his face?

“Aye. I’m just fine.” Mercifully she lost interest and turned away – mercifully, for just then the Doctor’s hand reached home.

The Doctor cupped him for a moment as if weighing up his options. He wrapped a hand around Jamie’s half-hard cock and began to work him steadily, slow, easy strokes that made his breath catch and his insides twist.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t do anything about it. He could leave the table. He could pull the Doctor’s hand out from under his kilt. Hell, if all else failed he could announce to the table just what the Doctor was up to and shame him into stopping. It was just that he wasn’t sure he _wanted_ him to stop. This was – interesting. The Doctor’s nimble fingers working him over and over with all those people watching, listening – and true enough, none of them were looking at Jamie just now, but they would if he made any noise. He had some practice keeping quiet – thin walls and all that – but not like _this_. This was an exercise in self-control fit for the old masters.

“No, you’re forgetting the lunar colony has a pressing need for selenium. You ought to at least _look_ like you care about their needs,” the Doctor said as he teased the tip of Jamie’s cock with his thumb. Jamie bit down hard upon his lip. That was – oh, lord. It was unfairly good. The Doctor had learned just how to do this, just what he liked, just where he was most acutely sensitive, and now he was shamelessly abusing that knowledge to – make him – _ohh_.

He sank down lower in his chair, pressing a hand to his burning face, trying to make him look inconspicuous. None of them were paying any attention to him – too caught up in an argument about selenium – but he was sure it was only a matter of time. Surely if anyone were to so much as glance in his direction they’d see just what a state he was in.

And oh, hell, if there’d been a window of opportunity to get up and walk away he’d gone and missed it, for there was no way he could stand up now without everyone in the room seeing the condition he was in. He’d just have to – oh, _God_ – ride it out till the end.

Which was going to be soon. He was so _close_ – oh, God in heaven, he was going to come any second now, with all those _people_ – and the Doctor was still looking blandly ahead, listening to the conversation, like everything was normal, like he wasn’t tossing Jamie off under the dainty tablecloth.

He tried to hold it off, battling, squirming in his seat as much as he dared. He didn’t understand how no-one had noticed. Even if they weren’t looking at him, surely they could feel how hot the room was getting? And he was only just barely keeping quiet, surely someone must _notice_ – perhaps they were all just too polite to comment.

The Doctor shifted in his seat and did a clever thing with his fingers, a twisting, tugging thing that had been known to make Jamie cry out – and Jamie couldn’t take it any longer, he _couldn’t_. He bit down on his tongue, fisted one hand in the dangling table cloth – and came, silently, his breath hitching, his shoulders shaking, vision blurring.

The relief was incredible. It was a few seconds before his mind unfogged enough to look around himself. No-one was paying him any mind. They truly didn’t seem to have noticed that he’d just come. He realised, giddily, that they’d actually got away with it. He wanted to laugh aloud. He wanted, more than anything, to put his head down on the table and go to sleep. The Doctor had drained all the energy from him.

The Doctor, who was now surreptitiously wiping his fingers upon a napkin. “Well, gentleman,” he pronounced, “– and Miss le Blanc – this has been fascinating, but I think it’s high time I retired for the night so that I can think it over.”

“But surely –” began the balding man.

“No, no.” The Doctor’s tone was growing more and more hurried. “I’m afraid I must insist. And I think my companion here is quite tired out.” He thrust his napkin into his pocket and took Jamie by the arm. “Come along, Jamie.”

What the others made of their abrupt exit Jamie couldn’t say, for he was bundled out the door into the metal passageway beyond before anyone had a chance to protest.

The moment the door hissed shut behind them the Doctor had him back against the wall, a sly look in his eye. “What’re you –” The Doctor silenced him with a fierce kiss, doing his best to devour Jamie’s mouth even as he resisted. “Mm. _Mmph_. No.” Jamie pulled back, turned his face away. “No kissin’. What the _hell_ are you playin’ at?”

“Sorry,” said the Doctor, clearly nothing of the sort. “I got bored.”

“So you thought you’d have a good old grope, did you?” Though he didn’t mind, really. He was upset only in theory. He knew he _ought_ to mind, but he was sleepy and satisfied and still thrumming with risky exhilaration.

The Doctor shrugged. “You didn’t seem to mind.” He kissed Jamie again, and this time Jamie let him, though he did his best to kiss back in a sulky manner.”

“ _Never_ do that to me again,” he said, voice hoarse, when the Doctor drew back.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said the Doctor, all innocent. “Now, come on. Our bunkroom’s this way, and I think I’d like to ravish you now.”

“Och, if you must,” said Jamie with a roll of his eyes.


End file.
